January Blues, and Just Stuff & Nonsense

Trip At The Seaside.

The world is muffled, partially, patchily,

Sounds leap out and grab my attention,

Shapes are unreal and follow their own logic,

Nauseating irritants inhabit my senses,

The wallpaper dances above the twin corpses,

My own movements are blurred and jerky,

Image after image, delayed input of data,

As I reach my limit I gather my strength,

Just enough to be comfortable when I pass out.

To picture the stream that we swam down,

To fertile oceans, eventual, and clear, sincere,

Would not explain the smallness,

The simple, tiny crystals,

Spinning through this cottage love,

Nor the serene, ineffable,

Yellow,

Chainsaw, beneath my chair,

Nor the blue gold, and stars,

In your hair,

Streaming, simple, serene,

Pictures of this life's effort,

Simple and, ineffable, yellow.

Treeman.

I feel like a tree

With roots deep below this pub floor,

Drinking in essence of wholesome ages,

Wobbling slightly.

In reality fractured by frame of mind.

Fractured by abuse,

Of the Percept.

The girl who flirts with peculiar intensity,

Is sacrificially undressed,

Mentally embraced,

And completely included in this view.

Smiling she lets the tree undress her,

And wriggles her flirt with instinct,

Distinctive, mentally promising.

And the stoned tree wavers and

Folds stiffly against the years,

And chairs with a girlfriend.

I feel like the felled lumber,

Timber for the mental fire,

The rush that comes is

At least in essence is wholesome,

Wobbling slightly,

In unreal fractured view of laughing girls.

2013 (It was already shut obviously.)

 

  2017

                                                                          

Village Kharma.

Bring all your infectious kharma, fruit & poison,

To new century chapters and village affairs,

- This is life, just as we know it.

Bring your "501"s, red wine, and hang-ups,

CDs, smoke, a beady bangly thing,

And the sweetest dark brooding viscious lust,

And pour it down my throat, get it stuck in my teeth,

And I'll sing my century back to you,

To your navel, to your hands, to all of you,

- Is this your life, chapters, and red affairs ?

And at the space for after thoughts, and glow,

Deliver your truth in sleepy kisses.

And as your thought falls into the coals,

And your CD sticks to "your song",

We tumble into unconscious chapters, and village kharma.

Wandering left handed

by the grateful fire-sided banquet laden

loaded maiden hand-holding and a

spring in your silent step step step

to the door with stairs that lead

to the promise beyond

the pale shelter offered in this

cottage love that shines and glisters

in the night you remember that

you're in a wood where billy brock resides

with a tongue that burns and you walk to warm

the memory of that night beneath

the marriage quilt of deep seated emotional feeding

when boys find what it's really all about

and shout and cry to the rhyme

of a reasonable one

who needs a prop as much as you

but cannot seem to divide the two

and you think she loves you and you know

you can't say what real life is all about

and gives you just enough room to start

to doubt that life you've learned is

what it seemed and then you hear

that poets dreamed

and the cottage night is then begun

before the dawning of the sun

and silent step step step

you lead me to your bed

and the fire settles for the night

and now I know that all's alright

and kiss you madly.

About 70% of these houses didn't exist when I was a kid in the 1970s. The entire upper right hand quarter of the picture was fields, as the majority of the upper third, and a load of the rest. Tragic.

You might be able to guess, just from the framing, and aspect, which house I grew up in, (in the "above" picture) which was there way before the over-whelming majority of the others, no clues other than that, but I was extremely lucky, and know it.

Watching You

I

I was watching you

Watching you watching

You were

You were listening

What ?

Could You hear ?

Can

Can you Remember ?

Remember way back

You were listening

What ?

Could you hear ?

Do

Do you still think ?

"Oh those Eastern days." ?

I was

I was listening

What ?

Could I hear ?

I

I was listening, you

Watching, me watching

What ?

Could you see ?

Now

Now time runs out

Time is running out

You were

Romancing you were

What

Do you love ?

And

And now I am scared

Scared if the phone rings

I am

I am confused

What ?

Does it mean ?

Where ?

Where are you now ?

When I need a hand ?

You are

Distanced you are

So far away now...

I know, I know. I'm posting seemingly random old stuff, there are some links, and some of those reveal my own inadequacies, and insecurities. I strive though, at least a bit, to hold up a mirror to myself in the process, and it's not a pretty sight sometimes. I am not misanthropic, though maybe I was extremely insecure in my teens and twenties, oh, and thirties.... I over-think everything, and end up in the worst in-between place mostly.

This entire blog is part of my trying to explain it all, and I thank both of you for actually bothering to read it.

This last five, or six, or seven years have been extremely challenging, and I'm in no way through that challenge as yet, and refuse to lose it. There has been a hell of a lot of loss along the way though, and it all seems senseless, and desperately sad.

Don't judge me though, please, I do enough of that on my own already.

 

Occasionally life throws up sights like this, and while they may not translate terribly well, they mean a hell of a lot to me.

Stay strong out there, and just love.